


All but Death, can be Adjusted

by middlemarch



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: Brothers, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Marriage, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jem Blythe would have made a good surgeon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All but Death, can be Adjusted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



It wasn’t very hard to find Una Meredith. She was at home or the church or Rainbow Valley and even then, she favored one spot; the rocking chair that had been her mother’s, the second pew where the finish was a little worn, a flat stone beside the brook backed by aspens that never stopped their murmuring. She had made her own sort of mourning, pale colors that did nothing for her, wore her hair in a braid like a school-girl although she was twenty-four, low-heeled, sensible shoes that advertised her spinsterhood. Jem hated it.

He’d been hoping with time there would be some change, as there had been changes for the rest of them, careers and cities, babies coming along, even Susan with her bicycle. Shirley had moved to Vancouver; the flight back to the Island was long but he didn’t mind it. But Una seemed determined to remain in 1918, a secular anchoress. Faith had wondered aloud one night, lying in his arms, whether her sister wanted to become a nun and he’d thought, perhaps she was right. She had a face made for a habit. But then they had visited at the holidays and it was clear it wasn’t that. It was Walter.

There was a hush that followed Una, surrounded her and if in 1918, no one had realized how much she grieved for Walter, it had become apparent to everyone over the next few years and now everyone respected her mourning and her faith and her broken-hearted blue eyes so much that nothing touched her. She had been indispensable when ‘flu came to Glen St. Mary and still called at Miss Cornelia’s every few days to let the older women retell the stories of those weeks, when Mary Vance had convulsions with her fever and then the stroke that left her with a limp matching Miller’s. Una was in danger of becoming the saint of Glen St. Mary’s and Jem wasn’t having it.

He was glad she was in Rainbow Valley; it was easier for him there with the wet smell of the earth, the shells of bark strewn about and leaves trampled only by squirrels. She was wearing a pale blue blouse, a long grey coat, and she could not have looked more human and less like a fawn or a dove.

“Una,” he called, a little louder than he needed. He didn’t want to call twice, to make her wonder who it was who wanted her.

“Oh, Jem. I’m sorry, have you been there long?” she answered. He didn’t know why she apologizied, she had done nothing wrong and he thought she didn’t mean it.

“No, not at all. I wanted to talk to you, better alone I thought,” he said.

“Is everything all right? Is Faith all right? The baby? I’m happy to come, to stay a while if you need,” she said. He shook his head. Even if Faith had been ill with the baby they had waited for so long it seemed, he wouldn’t have wanted Una to come.

“No, that’s not it. She’s fine, she’s finally happy as she should be.”

“That’s good, isn’t it, Jem?”

“Of course. But, you’re not,” he said, without anything to distract from the words, letting them fall instead of skipping them.

“Not?” she repeated, making it a question with her tone but he looked in her eyes as most no longer did and he saw she knew.

“You’re not happy and you’re not going to be happy. Una, I can’t let you, it’s wrong,” he said. He wasn’t quite sure why he was the one who needed to say it, but no one else had or would. Even Faith had not been sure he was right, but he was. It struck him, who would have approved of this, what he was doing—Aunt Marilla, who’d never confused sentimentality with love, love with grief.

“Jem, I don’t know what you mean,” Una said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. She was very good at being still but she’d gleaned how it could make others, especially former soldiers, uneasy and so she moved a little. He wished she hadn’t.

“I’m sure there is another way to say this… I would say it another way if I were your doctor and you were my patient or if you were my sister, but—Una, Walter’s dead. He’s dead and you don’t have to be, but the way you are, you’re not dying, you’re allowing yourself to be killed.”

“Jem, I know--”

“You don’t, though, or if you do, you don’t know it enough or how to stop it. I’m not going to say what would have happened if Walter lived, if he’d come back, what he’d want for you… none of that matters. What matters is you have a life, you could but you don’t and I can’t see you ever will as long as you stay here, being a half-widow,” he paused. She had not interrupted again and there was actually some color in her cheeks, something in her eyes that welcomed him.

“I brought this for you, to help you,” Jem said and handed her the thick envelope. She didn’t ask, just opened it and looked at the bills, even as mille-feuille. “You need to take it and go somewhere else—New York makes sense or maybe Boston, I don’t know, maybe you’d like the weather warm all the time, there was a soldier from Savannah and he’d never seen snow before France. You need to get out, away from here.”

“How could I?”

“Who is there to stop you? Una? No one else seems to want to advise you or guide you but I don’t think anyone would tell you not to go. And even if they did, then what? You’re an adult woman, you’re not beholden to them. But you’re trapped here, they’re getting accustomed to you like this and soon they won’t want to let you go,” Jem said. His mother had started to change the way she talked about Una and he didn’t want to challenge her but it sickened him to see the waste. He did not want to start dreaming of Una’s pale face, her eyes dark like the night behind the moon, gleaming up from the slick, sucking mud of France, another casualty. She shouldn’t be another anything.

“I suppose I could go to Toronto, to Rilla,” Una began but Jem didn’t let her.

“No. Don’t. It’s not far enough. You’ll still be all tangled up with Walter and how much Rilla wants you to still love him. Or she won’t, she won’t think of it the way you do, she and Ken have their own life to manage and you’ll be even more hurt. I know you, Una, I’ve known you since you were a little girl and I’m married to your sister. I know how much you want to stay in love, in grief for Walter, but it’s wrong. You need to leave.”

“Jem, it’s not so easy,” she said and he tried, he tried to wait, to see what else she might say, to see if he was wrong and she was struggling with something else. “He’s here, I can feel, my memories--”

“He’s not here, Una. He’s dead. God, he was my brother and I loved him and I wish so much he had lived but he didn’t. Don’t do this, Una. Don’t make yourself the widow of a man you never knew; you knew a boy named Walter Blythe once. Don’t tell yourself this is enough… it’s not. I don’t know what will be enough or you, but you won’t find it here. There’s five hundred dollars there, I thought it would be enough to get somewhere else, give you some time to make plans, real ones. Even if they are a mistake and you start over again. Just, Una, don’t live for him, for who he was or who he could have been—he had his life. You’re not having yours,” he finished. He was tired now but he would keep talking if he had to.

He’d thought about this in the car, making house-calls and driving to his parents’ home, Faith dozing in the seat next to him; he’d seen Una’s mouth in Faith’s as she slept and the arc of her brows, though their coloring was so much different. His wife was still gold and rose, obviously lovely, less so while she slept which never troubled him. He thought there’d be no difference with Una. He’d resolved he would do something, what ought to be done. Una held the envelope easily and looked away from him. He could hear the brook but he didn’t hear the echo of their childhood voices, the slapping of leaves under their feet, the long whistle Walter had made to let him know he was waiting.

“Jem, do you think it’s enough to get to San Francisco?” Una asked. He wasn’t surprised but he was interested in the city she chose; she hadn’t asked what he thought though, just if there was enough. He didn’t think she’d bob her hair like Rilla had done but it wouldn’t suit her as it had his sister.

“I’d think so,” he said.

“All right. I’ll tell my father tomorrow, I can do that and I think he will say whatever else needs to be said. No one expects me to talk very much in any case,” she said and he heard just a little bit of what he’d suspected she was capable of. Una hadn’t left yet but just the prospect…He was glad he’d been right. He wouldn’t be again, not about her, at least he hoped not.

“Not here. But I don’t think it’s universally true. I know my mother would argue otherwise, but Prince Edward Island isn’t the world. Not for us.” 

It had been easier when it was but Jem knew more about easy and hard now, about the compass and the needle, the jeweled pivot. Walter had been killed with his Piper, a boy who would die for ideals. Jem and Una, Shirley and Diana and Mary Vance were adults and they had to live for what there was, practical people practicing at life; it was all they could do.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Anne of Green Gables story and Anne is mostly off-screen. The end of Rilla of Ingleside always makes me concerned for poor Una (who feels like "poor Una" in all the books she's in) and I felt like Jem would be one person who could really confront her in a meaningful way.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
